That perfect gift

Such pressure to get it exactly right. John Lewis this year has informed me that their store has the seasonal capability to sell me 'the perfect gift' so that I can bestow on my loved one 'that feeling'. But if I give the perfect gift, what shall I do next year? Any gift subsequent to the perfect gift is bound to seem imperfect, and forever so on and and so on.

And as for 'that feeling'.... What a sly and knowing suggestion that is, John. 'Yep, Suzzy has really brought home the bacon this year. Only she could know what my heart's desire had been, and now that she has fulfilled it with this perfect gift, I am suffused with a feeling so utterly wonderful that words barely ...etc'

Get out there right now and shop, for pity's sake!

Recycle, reschmycle

Lady in Secto this morning with two whole trolleyfuls, all wrapped carelessly in (I estimate) a total of 20 plastic bags emblazoned with 'Green points if you re-use'. Chances of this lady re-using said bags, as suggested, suitably incentivized? Next to nil, I would say. Chances of them ending up snagged in some roadside hedgerow? Higher.

What will it take for people to desist from using these ugly, nasty little bags?

And if Secto is supposed to be one of the country's leading retailers, how come they are not displaying any leadership by continuing to dispense these wretched bags willy-nilly when they should be (a) charging at least 50p per bag for the time being and (b) aggressively phasing them out within a short timeframe? The Irish have managed it. One village down west has managed it. Is it all simply beyond us English?

Aubrey and the garage roof

Aubrey is replacing the roof of my garage. I am afraid he will inhale dust from the cracked asbestos/cement corrugated roofpieces, get critically ill, and sue me for all I have.

In order to escape the awesome scene of incipient asbestosis, I escape downtown, eat beef stew and dumplings with an acetic Portuguese red, and observe a classic triad at the table in the corner. Two guys, one of some bulk but with a tiny squashed-in nose, the other short, swarthy, with a long black single plait. They alternate between over-friendliness and provocative two-bit hostility, in the way that only committed drunks do. And a woman, skin ravaged by unknown excesses of her own, dressed in standard-issue chavwear - she gazes silently and emotionlessly at each of the roughnecks in turn until it is time for the fag which she clamps between her chapped lips and steps outside in order to be smoked by. The two guys follow her out. The swarthy one makes a big show of rearranging their chairs and - yuck! why? - the chair opposite me muttering '...gotta show respect...'

When I return home, Aubrey is - thank God! - still alive, though breathing heavily. I make him some tea and toast and honey, so the courts will be forced to acknowledge that I am a kindly soul incapable of putting Aubrey knowingly in harms' way.